Jamieson forced himself to pause, to let the question sink in, then went on rapidly. "Do you know what Man does when he encounters blind, fanatical hostility on any planet? It has happened a number of times. We quarantine the planet, at the same time throwing a cordon of ships around it to defend it from possible Rull attack. We then spend a great deal of time, which the Rulls would consider wasted, in attempting to establish peaceful relations with the planet's inhabitants. Teams of trained observers study their culture and infer as much as possible of their psychology, in order to get at the root of the trouble.
"If all attempts fail, we determine the most bloodless way of taking over their government or governments, and when this is accomplished we set about carefully revising their culture to remove from it only those elements, usually paranoid, which prevent co-operation with other races. After a generation, complete autonomy is restored and they are given the free choice of whether to join the federation which now includes nearly five thousand planets. Not once has this gigantic, expensive gamble on our part failed to pay off.
"I cite these examples merely to show you the vast gulf between the human way and the Rull way. There should be no need of our taking over Carson's Planet. You ezwals are intelligent enough to see who is your real enemy if you will open your minds. You yourself, here and now, can be the first."
There was no more to be said. He stood, then, and waited what seemed like a long time, but no faintest answering thought came from the strange, hushed wilderness about him. His shoulders slumped dejectedly. It was late afternoon, and he could see the blur of the sun through low-hanging vines. The hard realization came to him that his plight, already desperate, would soon get worse.
For even if he escaped the Rulls, in two hours at most the great fanged hunters and the reptilian flesh-eaters that roved the long nights of this primeval planet would emerge ravenous from their hideaways, their senses attuned to prey far better equipped to survive than he. Maybe if he could find a real tree with good, strong, high-growing branches and rig up some warning system of vines...
He began to work forward, avoiding those clumps of dense brush which might conceal anything as large as an ezwal. It was rough going, and after a few hundred yards his arms and legs ached from the effort. At this point, quite abruptly, the first indication that the ezwal was still in the vicinity came to him in the form of a thought, sharp and urgent: "There is a creature hovering above me, watching me! It is like an enormous insect, as large as you, with diaphanous, almost invisible wings. I sense a brain, but the thoughts are ... meaningless! I—"
"Not meaningless!" Jamieson cut in, his voice tense. "Alien is the word. The Rull is far more different from you and me than we are from each other. There is reason to think they may be from another galaxy, although this theory is unconfirmed. I don't wonder that you cannot read its mind." '
As he spoke, Jamieson moved slowly into denser cover, holding his gun raised alertly. "Also, it is supported by an antigravity unit smaller and more efficient than any we human beings have been able to produce so far. What appears to be wings is only a sort of aura, an effect of its cellular control of light waves. You have the dangerous privilege of seeing a Rull in its natural form, which has been revealed to few human beings. The reason may be that it thinks you are a dumb beast, and you may be safe if— But no! It must be able to see the harness you are wearing!"
"No." There were overtones of distaste in the ezwal's denial. "I pulled the thing off right after we parted."
Jamieson nodded to himself. "Then act like a dumb beast. Snarl at it and sidle away but run like hell into the thickest underbrush if it reaches with one of its reticulate appendages toward any of those notches on either side of its body."
There was no answer.
The minutes dragged while Jamieson strained to catch sounds that might give a hint of the critical situation going on somewhere out of his sight Would the ezwal make an attempt to communicate with the Rull by means other than telepathy, despite the danger which it seemed to realize? Worse yet, would the Rull, in becoming aware of the ezwal's intelligence, see an advantage in forming an unholy alliance? Jamieson shuddered to contemplate what might happen on Carson's Planet in that event.
He heard sounds—small, perturbing noises from all about: the distant crackle of undergrowth giving way to some large, unguessable body; faint snortings and grunts; an unearthly, pulsating low cry from some indeterminate point, possibly quite nearby. He burrowed deeper into the tangle of brush and peered out warily, half expecting some vast, menacing shape to form among the fetid mists now settling over the darkening ground.
The tension grew greater than he could bear. He had to know what was happening out there. Therefore, he would assume that the ezwal was acting on his advice.
With silent concentration, he projected a thought. "Is it still following you?"
The quick response surprised him. "Yes! It seems to be studying me. Stay where you are. I have a plan."
Jamieson sat bolt upright in his hideaway. "Yes?" he said.
The ezwal continued. "I will lead the creature to you. You will destroy it with your gun. In exchange, I offer to help you cross the Demon Straits."
Weariness slipped from Jamieson's shoulders. He straightened up and strode forward a few steps exultantly, momentarily unmindful of possible dangers.
There could be no doubt: the ezwal had abandoned all plans of an alliance with the Rulls! Whether this was because of Jamieson's explicit warnings or simply because of the ezwal's own discovery of the communication barrier made little difference. The important thing was that the threat which had come into being with the first sighting of the Rull ship was now ended.
It suddenly dawned on him that he was neglecting to accept the ezwal's proposal formally. He was about to do so when a wave of scathing thought from the giant beast made his response unnecessary.
"I sense your agreement, Trevor Jamieson, but take heed! I considered the Rull as an ally only in order that we might divest ourselves of our foremost enemy—Man! There was never any assurance that others of my race would have consented to an alliance of any kind. To many of us it would be unthinkable. Right now, I trust you are ready; I'll be there in seconds!"
Off to Jamieson's left there was a sudden rending of brush. He tensed himself and as the sound grew louder raised his weapon expectantly. Through the mists, he caught sight of the ezwal, moving in a deceptively ponderous fashion on its six legs. At fifty feet, its three-in-line, steel-gray eyes were pools of light. And then as he searched the swirls of vapor over the beast's head for a dark, hovering shape— "Too late!" came the ezwal's piercing thought. "Don't shoot; don't move! There are a dozen of them above me, and—"
A glaring white light burst silently over the scene, blanking out the flow from the ezwal's mind, then faded abruptly. With the after-image burning his eyes, Jamieson sank helplessly to a crouching posture, waiting for a doom that seemed certain.
Agonizing moments passed, and nothing happened. As his eyes partially regained their function, he could see what had saved him—no miracle, but only the fog, now rolling more thickly than ever. Distasteful though it was, it nevertheless concealed him as he cautiously worked his way back into the dense thicket and lay prone, peering out warily. Once or twice, through the obscuring mist, he glimpsed drifting shapes overhead. The absence of any wisp of thought from the ezwal was disturbing. Could that mighty beast have been struck dead so quickly and without an audible struggle?
It seemed unlikely. Energy in sufficient quantity for the purpose would not have been soundless. There was a more probable alternative: the Rulls must have worked a psychosis on the ezwal. Nothing else could explain that incoherent termination of thought in so powerful a mind.
Protective psychosis was used mainly on animals and other uncivilized and primitive life forms, unaccustomed to that sudden interplay of dazzling lights. And yet, in spite of its potent brain, the ezwal was very much animal, very much uncivilized and possibly extremely su
sceptible to mechanical hypnosis.
This line of reasoning would indicate that the Rulls had assumed that the ezwal was merely a primitive animal. Considering its appearance and deliberate behavior, this was a natural enough conclusion. Why, then, would they want to capture it alive? Perhaps they knew it was not native to this planet and were now seeking a clue as-to its origin. Although this planet was within the periphery of human military bases, it was accessible enough to the Rulls that they could have visited here before.
Jamieson smiled bleakly. If the Rulls took the ezwal aboard their ship under the impression that it was an unintelligent animal, they could be in for a rude awakening when it regained its senses. The beast had wiped out a shipload of human beings who had been much closer to realizing its full potentialities.
A flicker of lightning lighted up the twilight sky to the north, and after a few seconds came the expected roll of thunder.
Jamieson sprang to his feet in abrupt excitement. No storm, that. It was man-made thunder, unmistakable to his ears—the vibrant roar of a broadside of hundred-inch battleship projectors.
A battleship! A capital ship, probably from the nearest base, on Kryptar IV, either on patrol or investigating energy discharges.
As he watched, there came another fleeting glare, and answering thunder, closer but on a smaller scale. The Rull cruiser would be lucky if it got away!
But Jamieson's feeling of exultation dwindled quickly. This new turn of events could benefit him little, if at all. For him, there remained the night and its terrors. True, there would be no trouble now from the Rulls, but that was all. The running fight between the two ships would take them far into space and might last for days. Even if a patrol ship were sent here, and if he happened to see it, he had no way to signal it except with his gun—if there were any charge left in it by that time.
It was now so dark that his visibility was reduced to a very short distance, and his personal danger was thereby increased in geometric proportion. His eyes and his gun were his only safeguards; the former would very soon become nearly useless, while the small reserve of power in the latter had to be conserved for an indefinitely—perhaps impossibly—long time.
Uneasily, Jamieson peered into the gathering darkness around him. It was possible that he was already being stalked by some unseen monster. He started forward involuntarily, then checked himself. Panic would only invite disaster. He placed a finger in his mouth, held it up and felt a faint coolness on the right side of it. This direction was not too far from that in which he judged the antigravity raft might lie—but that was scarcely to be thought about now.
He started off upwind and promptly learned that progress through the jungle maze, difficult enough by day, was almost impossible by night. He could not retain any sense of direction and was obliged to recheck wind direction every few yards. It was now pitch-dark, and the continual stumbling over unseen obstacles made his passage so noisy that he debated the advisability of going on. But the alternative of remaining there immobile through the long hours of darkness seemed a thousand times worse. He blundered on, and a few moments later his fingers touched thick, carboniferous bark.
A tree!
4
Great beasts stamped below as he clung to his precarious perch high above them. Eyes of fire glared at him. Seven times in the first few hours monstrous things clambered up the tree, mewing and slavering in feral desire and seven times his gun flashed a thinner beam of destroying energy. Great scale-armored carnivores whose approach shook the ground came to feed on the odorous flesh—and passed on.
Less than half the night gone! At this rate, the charge in his blaster would not last until morning—to say nothing of the next night, and the next, and the next. How many days would it take to reach the raft—providing he could find it at all? How many nights—how many minutes—could he survive after his weapon became useless?
The depressing thing was that the ezwal had just agreed to work with him against the Rulls. Victory so near, then instantly snatched afar. That thought ended. Because something, a horrible something, slobbered at the foot of the tree. Great claws rasped on bark, and then two eyes, disturbingly far apart, suddenly grew even farther apart, and he realized with sick terror that they were coming up at him with astounding speed.
Jamieson snatched at his gun, hesitated, then began to climb hastily up into the thinner branches. Every second, as he scrambled higher, he had the awful feeling that a branch would break and send him sliding toward the slavering thing below; and there was the more dreadful conviction that great jaws were at his heels.
His determination to save the power in his gun worked beyond his expectations. The beast was edging tip into those thin branches after him when there was a hideous snarl below, and another, greater creature started up the tree. The fighting of animal against animal that started then was absolutely continuous. The tree shook as catlike beasts, with gleaming, hooked fangs, fought waddling, grunting shapes. Then, from the blackness nearby came a trumpeting scream, and a moment later a vast, long-necked monster, whose six-foot jaws might have reached Jamieson in his perch, lumbered into the carnage and attacked the whole struggling mass of killers indiscriminately. The first to die was dragged aside and eaten in an incredibly short time, after which the colossal creature wandered off, temporarily sated.
Toward dawn the continuous bellowing and snarling from near and far diminished, as stomach after eager stomach gorged itself and retired in enormous content to some cesspool of a lair.
At dawn he was still alive, completely weary, his body drooping with the desire for sleep, and in his mind was only the will to live, but no belief that he would survive the day. If only the ezwal had not cornered him so swiftly in the control room of the ship, he could have taken antisleep pills, fuel capsules for his gun, a compass chronometer, and—he smiled futilely at that line of reasoning—also a lifeboat which would by itself have enabled him to fly to safety.
At least there had been food capsules in the control room and he had snatched a month's supply. Jamieson descended the tree, put some distance between himself and the blood-soaked ground beneath it, and then took some nourishment.
He began to feel better. He began to think. As nearly as he could judge, based on an estimate of the ezwal's speed while they were traveling and the length of time, the raft should not be more than ten miles or so to the north. Barring a thousand accidents and perils, that would mean, for him, at least a full day or more of travel, depending on how many segments of sea and swamp lay between. Then, of course, he would have to beat the jungle in widening circles till he found the raft and charged his gun. The raft itself would be of no use; even with its power undepleted, it was only a sort of super-parachute, incapable of sustaining aloft much more than its own weight.
With a lot of luck, in other words, he would have the single advantage of a fully charged hand weapon with which to begin a hundred-mile trek to the wrecked ship. A hundred miles of jungle, sea and swamp . . . and the Demon Straits. A hundred miles of heat, humidity, carnivores— But there was no point in dwelling on the depressing odds against him. One step at a time—that was the only way he could proceed and keep his sanity.
Bone-weary from lack of sleep and the grueling tension of the night just past, he began the day's march. The first hour of struggling progress did little to hearten him. He had covered less than a mile, he was sure, and that was by no means in a straight line. He had wasted at least half of it in skirting areas of quagmire and several acre-wide bramble patches so thickly intertwined he doubted that even the ezwal could have penetrated them.
More time and energy had to be consumed in climbing an occasional tree in order to check on distance and direction—a vital matter, if he expected to arrive at the proper place from which to start a search for the raft.
By noon he estimated that he had advanced not more than three miles in the right direction. The white blur which marked the sun's position was now so close to the zenith as to make his bearings u
ncertain for the next hour or so. This fact, combined with the presence of a tall tree nearby and his physical exhaustion, made a compelling argument in favor of resting a while. There was a group of branches like an upreaching hand in the treetop; with some of the less abrasive vines in the vicinity he could tie himself in place and...
He awoke with the beasts of the Eristan night snarling their blood lust at the base of his tree.
His first reaction was terror—suffocating terror from the pressing, deadly darkness about him. Then, as he gradually regained control of his nerves, there came a strong feeling of chagrin at having lost so much time. But he had needed the rest desperately, he told himself, and there was no doubt that physically he felt much better. There was no way of telling how far into the night he had slept; he could only hope there was not too much of it left.
The tree vibrated suddenly as, far below, monstrous paws beat at its trunk. Startled, Jamieson began loosening the vines which secured him to his perch. Not that he could climb much higher, but he had learned that even a few feet could make all the difference.
War Against the Rull Page 3
